bad Poetry

how can i warn your wife that you'll do to her what s.p. did to l.p.? i warned her once, and then i saw her take you back.

what a cool liar you are, scotty! no repercussions, no consequences for ted bundy's like you.

you thought you had me, but the tricks of a psychopath don't work on me.

i mean to say, i'd sooner murder you than love you. crush your head between my thighs, poison that shitty bourbon you think makes you sophisticated. it's what you deserved.

i crave justice, scale in one hand, bloody driver in the other.

it's not just revenge, it's sport the way you thought i was a holiday from Her.

i'd lov e to mount your tongue-less head up on my wall, cover you in sugar honey, let the ants feast.

it was silly to cry on the drive home yesterday. all the songs sounded like you, and everything just felt like the deadest end.

what is love and how can i feel it? does it happen, or is it found, or was it in us all along?

does it not exist?

i've been so long without it, maybe immune, maybe imaginary, but the need to know is monumental, goliath.

i'm on a plane, faced in your direction. turbulent, like love, that lurch of the stomach. nothing to spit in, phoenix airlines.

i've faced this way before, didn't quite reach you. always landing on the wrong island, not north enough, 9 hours too short.

still, you change your locks, your numbers, your excuses. witness protection from my devotion for you.

devoted to what? your crooked gaze? receding hairline? your foreskin, your apprehension?

you didn't say much the last time, and that's how i knew you'd flee again. no need to worry about your performance if you're a constant no-show. unreliable little flake. nerdy, shower-needing heartthrob.

at least have the decency to tell me "no," to call me a stalker, an idiot, boring! let me be the villain, for once. i want off the high horse, as it, again, for the millionth time, gallops into the no mans land of your regard.

nothing to live for and no one to die for. existence, and what to do with it.

more adherence to the bed than to the routine.

but he used to be it; to impress him, to appease him, the goal at the end of the pitch. he spoke in times between the monotony, the HR complaints, quarantine.

boring, but better than me.

what is the context of what we do, anyway? war is so complex, and yet it's backed, and run by cavemen, myself included.

when you left, so did my will to try.

just as boring as you, i wanted to be better.

no perks.

no zest.

just wishing for cancer, a hundred different colored pencils, and your whereabouts.

waiting for the other shoe to drop, i dropped you. why can't my idiosyncrasies be enough? how can I be the pinnacle, as well as the low bar? i'm the line in the sand, or the blue print? a wish to be the deadline, but pushed back, extensions requested, until a new assignment fails to be turned in?

it would be nice to be the only one. it would be nice to be without fault. it would be nice to be... not the other.

3 is a crowd, but it seems to be the modern way of courting me.

me, but some one else, and the picture is a big one and still i can't find how to fit.

being enough for some half-blind, mop-haired dope is not my idea of well-suited.

(why'd he have to look like my favorite alternative?) why let myself be othered into thinking i'm both the problem, and the finale?

i'm the impatient goal? the greedy stealer of hearts? the unideal ideal?

The fear was there with you, and after you, and here it is now, still, and there it will be tomorrow and beyond tomorrow.

Sometimes it comes as a phantom pain, a ghost ache. poltergeist sting.

My virginity is perpetual, but my innocence -- once used.

You took my soundness of mind, my ability to trust, my deep rooted pleasure.

No size, no circumference can fill the damage wrought by your addiction's refuge.

Every attempt is just salt in the wound. Every suitor kosher, iodized, sea.

if i could i would slit the throats of men who knew me too well.

i wish you knew me well enough!!

cowardly little lime, white as parchment, yellow as night. not having you is my greatest accomplishment, and deepest regret.

murder preoccupies my mind, the same way your shadow casts upon the places you've never been.

how often i imagined you, shotgun, against the red rock of Zion, scantily clad in the Mexican Gulf, scandalously full of Bratwurst, hunched, and above me, in Bangkok, Rio, Granada or where else.

you've stained my future with your imagined attendance. a crime scene of premeditated hope.

i wanted to be there, there, and there with you!

you, muse of my discontent. i've convinced myself i will not miss you nearly as much as i thought. how quaint to think this was love, internationally renowned, your receding hairline emulating all the borders of your vagrancy.

i can never be home to you. i cannot run away from what does not chase me.

call me a brick wall, a swamp leech, a stay in the tit;

the fly in your soup, an itch on your back, and a girl who loves you more than you deserved.

glad i never said it, because my recovery proves that it was never there.

i know now that we will never speak again.

filled with the sand and ocean that separates us, i know how i feel -- which is to say, how i've never felt it.

but that was the last time, wasn't it? i exhaust you, and you, me. am i where i'm supposed to be? to suffer under the covers of other men, the longing of you--less expectation, more dread?

what magic machine do you have that rids you from my dreams? i search for you in foggy smiles, as well as in my screams.

i dream of parents, sister too, the dog and JFK. i dream of Jeannie, Donald Duck, the Pope and Beyonce.

my enemies, they're crystal clear, their torments just like fact. i do not want them, yet they're here, as if it is their pact.

what of those i wish to see? the dead do come to visit. but things are better where they went; the same for you too, is it?

i call for you before the sands, sleepy wish of my heart. you never come, but if you did, just where would i start?

a dream of you would leave me warm, a tingling pain and burn. it'd be just like your absent stance, a phantom ache to yearn.

it's warm when you are not there. it's warm, too, when you're here. curse the gods for this difference; you best just disappear.

i prefer you in an altered state, without sun, fog or sky. please come to me atop your bed, like that morning in July.

i had no dreams of you back then, so this is all the same as when I was but 22, mispronouncing your last name.

the years no doubt have changed me, and my love for you--it wanes! i wish it'd simply go away, like i did on my plane.

i know that if i dream of you, i'll finally learn to hate the way i do my enemies who trespass my dream gate.

you have never been in love, and as embarrassing as that is to admit, just know that no one else has, either.

it’s just that some people are lucky, and they can be with someone that makes them smile, makes them pancakes.

and you, you don’t want to compromise:       bed space, closet space,       omitting cilantro from your best recipes       because all they can taste is soap when it is included.

the lucky ones switch bed sides,   eat dishes lacking coriander. and the lucky ones didn’t have to pine, to long, to suffer.

you have never been in love, and maybe it’s because you think love is prolonged heartbreak, not moving on, and waiting.

why would love make you wait, when a California king is plenty of space to sleep, when sweaters can be put into storage, and when ice cream trumps raw herbs every time?

you love to hurt in the name of romance, and still, you don’t know what love is.

this Story starts off the same. thousands of Miles, Kilometers, whatever You count, just count on Me. You’re so far, and I’m here, and 

I’m doing it all again, because You’re the Update. You’re a whole Load of Freckles, Freckles, god, I can’t stop thinking about your Freckles--on your Face and Arms and your Shoulders, my god, let me kiss you the way the Sun does, let me kiss every Freckle on your Body, let me make more.

I want the hard-to-get, the chase, the hunt.

I’m up for the challenge but not the results.

Itd be nice to be realistic about something and have my head at a breathable altitude for once.

I wish I loved what could love me back.

I wish settling was acceptable.

I do not deserve him.

He is smart and kind, tall and beautiful.

I would have liked to kiss every freckle on his body,

but I am just glad he kissed me afterward, the way others wouldn’t.

It was more than I deserved.

Even a fling, more than i deserve.

What I deserve was not him letting me warm my cold feet on his hot ones, or that romantic stroll around Großer Dutzendteich.

What I deserve is nothing, a lump of coal,

I am a drop in the bucket of degenerates,

the useless, the wayward.

If i has an courage, I’d empty that bottle of sleeping pills.

Lucky for my pity of a life, I am a coward.

Rotten on the inside, but still wanting

the touch of an Adonis, St. Michael, a Labrador puppy.

Your only imperfection was in giving me a taste

of the forbidden fruit.

A taunt, a torture, an apt punishment.

I am repulsive and they do not want me.

All of them.

And they all lie.

And they only tell the truth when it cuts the most.

And others, they don’t tell the truth or lie at all.

He came into my life and came on me

and I guess I don’t deserve a fucking explanation as to why he left.

He meets me with silence.

He taught me how the rest of my life will sound.

I guess that’s as honest as it gets.

I looked for noise to replace what he took.

But the next one wrapped his fingers ‘497!; my throat and silenced me.

I know now that none of what I say is of any importance. They do not listen.

Back to silence. Thinking of you, what a song used to be.

Some tell you what you don’t want to hear.

I can’t hear it but I see what they say.

They don’t want me. He didn’t want me.

it’s Friday night and I’m reading poetry.

it’s Friday night and I want to die.

it’s Friday night and I don’t have friends.

I dont have anything.

Loud, but never heard,

bubbly but flat in intrigue.

I am nothing. He called me

useless, and that was

on Monday.

I am useless, and I

have no friends, and it is

Friday and I am useless.

I am undermined. Paranoid.

I am bad in my bad habits,

wanting to die, preferring alone,

writing bad poetry.

To be useful. Who would want

me. He said, “you’re a fantasy.”

All I heard was “Fetish.” It’s not

a word that gets lost in translation.

Nor is the word useless.

It means that.

I am that.

I could have loved without that,

and he told me anyway,

and it sticks to ribs like all the

gum I’ve swallowed.